the
hallway—a middle-aged man named Joshua, prematurely gray from stress he
openly blamed on Nicholas for even existing. Joshua cast Carmine a disapproving look as he strode by, but the man said nothing.
He was about as fatherly as Dr.
DeMarco.
It only took Carmine about ten minutes to
shower, the perpetual cold spray in the old ass house with the prehistoric
plumbing enough to jolt him wide-awake. He put on fresh clothes
afterward—he had about as much of his shit here as he did at
home—and made his way back toward the kitchen, slipping his shoes back on
as he went, his shirt clutched in his hand. He could hear fighting off in the
other side of the house, Nicholas arguing with his father about something-or- nother . Probably school. Or me . Who knows? Carmine didn't bother to investigate, knowing his friend preferred it that way.
They had an understanding. They fought their own battles, no matter how ugly.
It was just the way it was.
Instead of seeking out his friend, Carmine
plopped back down in the chair at the table and eyed Amy as she washed out
their bowls from breakfast. As long as he had known her, she had been more of a
parental figure to Nicholas than anything. When their mother died, she had
stepped up and taken on the role of woman of the house, taking care of her
brother and her father. Carmine sympathized with her… he knew what it was like
to practically raise yourself .
"Don't you have a house?" Amy
asked, shutting off the water to turn around and look at him. "Don't you
have your own family?"
Carmine stared at her for a moment,
expression blank. "Why do you care?"
"I get a little tired of looking at
you every day."
"Then don't look at me."
"You're here."
"So?"
"So?" She threw up her arms in
annoyance. "The least you can do is put on a damn shirt."
Raising his eyebrows, Carmine glanced down
at himself and rubbed his bare chest. He had gotten soft over the summer and
was just now back into shape thanks to Junior Varsity
football.
Football .
That struck a chord with him, hazy memories resurfacing. They'd had a football
game last night… hell, no wonder he stunk. He figured they'd won, since he'd
partied so hard in celebration. Or else he was drinking to forget the loss.
Either way, it worked. He barely
remembered any of it.
"You're not wearing a shirt, either,
you know," he pointed out.
"Yeah, well…" She stepped closer,
pressing her palms flat against the surface of the table as she leaned across
it to look him in the eyes. "Unlike you, I'm grown. I can do what I want,
little boy."
Carmine narrowed his eyes at her,
purposely avoiding glancing down at her breasts as she practically thrust them
toward his face. Such a fucking tease .
Amy stood up and walked away as a door
slammed down the hall and Nicholas stormed in, ignoring his father's yelling
behind him. Blah blah blah …
stay out of trouble… yadda yadda yadda … mind your fucking manners … whatever whatever ... I'm not running a fucking boarding house for
your delinquent friends...
Nicholas immediately searched through the
cabinets before groaning and instead opening the fridge. He pulled out two cans
of beer—the American flag colored cheap shit that tasted like
piss—but Carmine didn't complain when his friend tossed him one. He
popped the top and took a sip. Best cure for a hangover was just to start
drinking again.
And in the Barlow house? There was always
an abundance of alcohol to be found.
"So what are we doing today?"
Carmine asked.
"Same thing we did yesterday."
"And what's that?"
Nicholas raised his beer. "Getting
fucked up."
Carmine chuckled. Sounded about right to
him.
* * *
They were drunk again before nightfall, roughhousing along the
sandy beach and commandeering a neighbor's jet skis, having no regard for
anyone or anything. Fuck safety . They raced around the lake, shouting
and dodging obstructions, before playing a game of chicken. The jet skis sped
along the water straight at each other,
hallway—a middle-aged man named Joshua, prematurely gray from stress he
openly blamed on Nicholas for even existing. Joshua cast Carmine a disapproving look as he strode by, but the man said nothing.
He was about as fatherly as Dr.
DeMarco.
It only took Carmine about ten minutes to
shower, the perpetual cold spray in the old ass house with the prehistoric
plumbing enough to jolt him wide-awake. He put on fresh clothes
afterward—he had about as much of his shit here as he did at
home—and made his way back toward the kitchen, slipping his shoes back on
as he went, his shirt clutched in his hand. He could hear fighting off in the
other side of the house, Nicholas arguing with his father about something-or- nother . Probably school. Or me . Who knows? Carmine didn't bother to investigate, knowing his friend preferred it that way.
They had an understanding. They fought their own battles, no matter how ugly.
It was just the way it was.
Instead of seeking out his friend, Carmine
plopped back down in the chair at the table and eyed Amy as she washed out
their bowls from breakfast. As long as he had known her, she had been more of a
parental figure to Nicholas than anything. When their mother died, she had
stepped up and taken on the role of woman of the house, taking care of her
brother and her father. Carmine sympathized with her… he knew what it was like
to practically raise yourself .
"Don't you have a house?" Amy
asked, shutting off the water to turn around and look at him. "Don't you
have your own family?"
Carmine stared at her for a moment,
expression blank. "Why do you care?"
"I get a little tired of looking at
you every day."
"Then don't look at me."
"You're here."
"So?"
"So?" She threw up her arms in
annoyance. "The least you can do is put on a damn shirt."
Raising his eyebrows, Carmine glanced down
at himself and rubbed his bare chest. He had gotten soft over the summer and
was just now back into shape thanks to Junior Varsity
football.
Football .
That struck a chord with him, hazy memories resurfacing. They'd had a football
game last night… hell, no wonder he stunk. He figured they'd won, since he'd
partied so hard in celebration. Or else he was drinking to forget the loss.
Either way, it worked. He barely
remembered any of it.
"You're not wearing a shirt, either,
you know," he pointed out.
"Yeah, well…" She stepped closer,
pressing her palms flat against the surface of the table as she leaned across
it to look him in the eyes. "Unlike you, I'm grown. I can do what I want,
little boy."
Carmine narrowed his eyes at her,
purposely avoiding glancing down at her breasts as she practically thrust them
toward his face. Such a fucking tease .
Amy stood up and walked away as a door
slammed down the hall and Nicholas stormed in, ignoring his father's yelling
behind him. Blah blah blah …
stay out of trouble… yadda yadda yadda … mind your fucking manners … whatever whatever ... I'm not running a fucking boarding house for
your delinquent friends...
Nicholas immediately searched through the
cabinets before groaning and instead opening the fridge. He pulled out two cans
of beer—the American flag colored cheap shit that tasted like
piss—but Carmine didn't complain when his friend tossed him one. He
popped the top and took a sip. Best cure for a hangover was just to start
drinking again.
And in the Barlow house? There was always
an abundance of alcohol to be found.
"So what are we doing today?"
Carmine asked.
"Same thing we did yesterday."
"And what's that?"
Nicholas raised his beer. "Getting
fucked up."
Carmine chuckled. Sounded about right to
him.
* * *
They were drunk again before nightfall, roughhousing along the
sandy beach and commandeering a neighbor's jet skis, having no regard for
anyone or anything. Fuck safety . They raced around the lake, shouting
and dodging obstructions, before playing a game of chicken. The jet skis sped
along the water straight at each other,
Similar Books
